


Once Upon a Party

by espea



Category: Led Zeppelin, Queen (Band), The Rolling Stones, The Who
Genre: Alcohol, Crack, Drugs, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Humor, Love Triangles, M/M, Partying, i think, more tags to come, unintentional crossdressing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-15 12:37:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11806137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/espea/pseuds/espea
Summary: An unknown band called Queen is in for the night of their lives when their front-man, Freddie, manages to wrangle four invitations to the biggest party of the year (at least for them).Meanwhile, The Who was invited to the same party, only for their invitations to mysteriously 'disappear.'





	1. How are the Kids?

**Author's Note:**

> This is a thing that I wrote for fun. Please do not take it seriously. Like, at all.

Freddie swung open the door to Brian's apartment without bothering to knock, as usual.

"Good morning, my lovlies!" he exclaimed as he fixed himself something to drink. Brian and Roger were both sprawled on the floor in front of the sofa, absorbed by their studies. Well, Brian was absorbed. Roger distracted himself by folding his papers into little hats. 

"Why're you in such a good mood?" Roger asked. He set a hat on each of his fingers, making a pretend hat-themed party for his digits. Dentistry was really that fucking boring. 

"I'm always in a good mood, my dear." 

Brian looked up from his physics textbook and watched as Freddie somehow made a delicious looking fruity cocktail even though Brian only had a couple of beers, a box of cereal, and an orange in his kitchen. 

"Something seems special about today," Brian said. He took his studies much more seriously than his bandmates, possibly being the only one giving serious consideration to the possibility that Queen might not take off, but Brian couldn't draw his eyes away from Freddie's overly-sunny disposition. 

Freddie shrugged. "Nothing too special. I got an A on my water colour project, made some extra cash posing nude for a drawing class, I managed to get invitations to the Rolling Stones' party tonight, and I found a five-pound note on the ground." 

It took Brian's brain a moment to catch up to what Freddie said. 

"Did you just say that you managed to get invitations to a party thrown by THE Rolling Stones?" he asked. He wasn't the biggest Rolling Stones fan around, sure, but parties thrown by Mick Jagger and the rest of them were legendary.

Freddie winked. "Four of them, in fact." He pulled four white envelopes from his schoolbag and passed one to Brian and Roger each. He held the one for himself and the fourth one, looking around. "Where's John?"

"Who?" 

Freddie sighed in exasperation. "Deaky. Our bassist."

"Oh." Roger reached over to the couch and pulled the blanket off of it, revealing the seventeen-year-old bassist who had been napping. He blinked blearily as Freddie placed the pristine envelope on his chest. 

"Oh. Thanks, I think?" he said, squinting at the invite. 

"Will Jimi Hendrix be there?" Roger asked hopefully, because he assumed that every famous rock star knew each other. 

Freddie shrugged. "Well, he is in America and it's not likely that he'll fly in just for a party, so I doubt it." 

"What about The Who?" 

"I would think The Who would be too underground for this sort of thing," Brian said before noticing how Freddie looked away in guilt. 

"Well, they're probably not going to be there," he said. "I, uh, may have gotten these using less-than-acceptable methods."

Roger pretended to gasp in shock. "No!" 

"I swiped these off of Pete Townshend." 

"What the fuck, Freddie?" Roger exclaimed. 

"It's not like he wanted them," Freddie said in defense. "I heard him complaining about how they were too 'real' for an upscale party or some shit, and another man's trash and all that."

But that wasn't what made Roger angry. "I ask you about introducing me to The Who since you go to the same bloody school as Pete Townshend and you give me some bullshit about how it's a big school and running into him would be impossible. But when you want to go to some party, you manage to get within touching distance and swipe these off of him." He waved the invitation in front of Freddie's face. 

"Why does he need to go to school if his band's famous?" came John's quiet voice. 

Roger folded his arms. "Cause they're one of the biggest bands underground. They keep it real. There's no way that they would let fame and fortune go to their heads by buying expensive cars, doing high-class drugs, and becoming super pretentious." 

Brian looked up at the ceiling in thought. "Come to think of it, I think it was John Entwistle who helped me down at the tax office earlier this year." 

"Seriously?" screeched Roger. "One of the greatest bass players of our generation helped you file your taxes?!" 

John Deacon huffed and crossed his arms. 

"So I assume we're all going then," Freddie continued. "We should probably get new outfits if we've any hope of fitting in there." 

"I'm not going," Roger said, tossing his invite over to Brian. "Maybe Brian can use my invite to finally get a girl to go out with him."

Brian rolled his eyes, knowing better than to take Roger's grumpy words to heart. 

Freddie narrowed his eyes. "I think you owe me, Roger." 

"For what?" 

"The time you sold my favorite jacket."

Right. Roger and Freddie worked at the same shop currently, and Freddie never stopped giving him hell for when he let a customer buy Freddie's jacket, which he hung on the door before going to grab some coffee. 

"You got it back," Roger said meekly, shrinking down under Freddie's imperious gaze. "You chased the guy down and tackled him. Threw his money at him. You have to realize it was a little scary to see that." 

Freddie clutched a hand to his chest. "Roger, you have to realize that I'm still traumatized from nearly losing my favorite jacket to a complete stranger. I don't know if it would've gone to a loving home, or wind up lost under a bed." 

Roger rubbed the space between his eyebrows. "Jesus. If I go to this party, will you finally leave it alone?" 

Freddie smiled. "Of course, Roger. A fun night of scandalous behavior should be enough to get my mind off of it." 

"Alright, fine. Deal. A night of substance abuse and debauchery it is. Well, for everyone except John, since he's only seventeen in this story."

"Why am I here?" John asked. "In real life, I didn't join Queen until I was nineteen." After a brief moment of contemplating the state of the universe, John shrugged. "I bet there will be a lot of food there. I'm in."

Brian sighed. Of course he had an exam that Monday, and the big party would cut into valuable study time. But Freddie is very, very persuasive, as Brian learned the hard way when he went against Freddie about whether to name the band 'Queen,' or 'Permission to Build the Boat.' 

"I suppose I'm with you, too." He can only imagine what they were in for. 

\--------------------

Pete could feel the heat of Roger's glare drilling into the back of his skull. Even after Pete lost the invites, Roger still insisted that they make their way to Mick Jagger's home to try and get into the party. As such, Pete walked on ahead to be the one to confront the doorman, if there was one. 

"You sure we can get in?" John Entwistle asked. 

"The invitations were probably a formality," Roger said. "They had to account for the fact that they could easily get lost." Pete slumped down. 

"Is it really a good idea to go to this party, though?" Pete asked. "I mean, our fans aren't usually the kind to appreciate bourgeoisie shit like this." No, he didn't really want to go to the party, since trying to rub elbows with the upper-class and make connections in order to move ahead in the music industry without relying on pure talent put a bad taste in his mouth. And voicing his feelings on this was the wrong move.

"Pete," Roger said in a stern voice that forced him to stop. "We already have several hit songs. Our concerts sellout. So explain to me why I still have to work as a mechanic?" 

Pete flinched. Their money problems never seemed to go away, even as their songs climbed the charts, though never clearing the likes of the Rolling Stones and The Beatles. Hence, Roger and John still needed to work, and Pete couldn't leave school or else his wealthy parents would cut him off. Keith did sell drugs but that no longer seemed viable since Roger flushed them away and punched Keith in the nose. For a moment, Pete wondered if their issues making money had to do with their habit of destroying their instruments and equipment at the end of every show. 

No, that couldn't be it. 

Roger huffed. "Did I tell about when a fan recognized me when she went with her father to get a car fixed? Did I tell you about that, Pete? About how a fan recognized me when I was wearing that god-awful grey jumpsuit?" 

"Isn't the point of a party to relax?" Keith said, trying to play the peacemaker. "We should just focus on having fun."

Roger glared at Keith for a moment before grabbing him from behind, holding his arms up by the elbow.

"Frisk him," Roger ordered Pete, who couldn't ignore a tone that implied Roger would start punching things soon. He patted down the sides of Keith's legs and felt around his hoodie for suspicious lumps.

"What the hell, Roger?" John exclaimed. "Is this really necessary?" 

Pete pulled back. "He's clean." 

Roger crossed his arms, disbelieving. Keith threw up his hands.

"Why would I want to bring drugs, anyway? They probably have plenty at the party!" 

The blond singer narrowed his eyes, and Keith knew he said the wrong thing. 

"Listen, if this party is the only way we can get out of this ditch, then none of you are fucking it up, understood?" Roger fluffed out his sleeves. "I also plan on getting laid tonight, so no shenanigans from any of you." Roger stared down John, Pete, then Keith, making sure that they all got the message. 

They were close to the mansion now, and groups of people passed them on the way to the front door. One such group Roger saw consisted of three skinny, dark-haired blokes and a cute blond girl. He stored that information away for later.

\--------------------

"Seriously, Roger?" Brian said when he saw Roger's outfit. "You give Freddie shit for acting the way he does and you go and wear that?" Roger flipped him off.

"Fuck off Brian. Girls dig a guy in touch with his feminine side." Roger wore tight fitting jeans that accentuated his girlish figure and a loose-fitting blouse. Freddie dressed in something similar, except he had bell bottoms and an open shirt that showed off his carpeted chest. Meanwhile, both John and Brian wore standard jeans and polos, which could be considered their nicest outfits. 

The four of them walked to the party, not wanting to pay what little money they had for bus fare or a cab. They kept hearing hoots and whistles during the entire twenty minute walk but couldn't find who it was directed towards. Brian had an idea, though. 

They made their way through the thickening crowd towards the mansion, where a doorman awaited checking everyone's invitations. Roger pulled his ill-gotten invite out and spotted a certain someone just inside the door. 

"Holy shit, Fred. Mick Jagger's right inside greeting everyone." Roger whispered-yelled as to not grab the attention of everyone around them.

Freddie smiled, giddy. "I know, isn't this exciting?"

Roger shook his head. "You don't get it. He's going to know that we aren't supposed to have these invites because he doesn't know us. He's going to know that you stole these." 

Freddie rolled his eyes in that theatrical way of his. "Leave it to me, then, if you're so worried." 

They handed their invitations to the doorman and stepped inside. Right then, they heard someone yelling right behind them: "Yes, I know we don't have invitations but we're supposed to get them. They must've gotten lost in the mail or something can't you check a list or something?" Roger's stomach dropped down to his feet, but he pressed on. 

Mick Jagger turned to their group and Freddie immediately stepped forward with his arms open wide. 

"Mick! It's such a delight to see you again!" He reached out to Mick and grabbed his forearms. To Roger's complete and utter shock, Mick Jagger went along with this, even leaning forward as he and Freddie kissed each other on the cheeks. 

Freddie waved a hand towards them. "You remember Brian and Roger, of course. And our newest member of the group is John there." 

Mick vigorously smiled and nodded. "You better take care of this lot, you hear?" They politely laughed and Mick moved onto the next group that came in. 

"What the fuck was that?" Roger whispered. Brian shrugged. 

"It's Freddie. He has a way with people. It's best to just go along with it." 

\--------------------

John and Keith watched as Roger futilely yelled at the doorman.

"So where did you really hide everything?" John asked Keith. 

Keith smiled impishly. "I've got it stashed in the northwestern gutter. We should be able to access it from the second floor."

John smirked. Knowing Keith, he would have drugs, specially made alcohol, fireworks and anything else for wreaking havoc tonight. If they could get in. 

Roger continued to have a one-sided argument with the silent doorman while Pete stood awkwardly to the side. 

It was then that one fucking Jimmy Page (of the Yardbirds!) appeared at the door. He gave a little wave. 

"All right, you guys? I'm glad you were able to come." He tapped the doorman on the shoulder. "It's fine, they're with me." 

Pete sighed in relief, glad to know that the night wouldn't end with Roger punching everyone in sight, namely him. 

They followed Jimmy inside, and Pete quickened his steps just a little bit in order to catch up with his fellow guitarist. Perhaps they could exchange techniques or perhaps talk about their songs. 

Without warning, Jimmy stopped and turned towards them. Pete stumbled a bit to avoid running him over. 

"I am really glad you could all come," Jimmy said, polite as Lucifer. "But I'm hoping to talk to John and Keith. Alone." 

Pete felt his insides deflate. 

"Oh," he said. "Y-yeah, go on ahead. You guys are fine with it, right?" 

John and Keith both shrugged and went on ahead and followed Jimmy to God knows where, leaving Pete and Roger alone. Roger looked over the crowd, becoming more and more agitated.

"What is with all the blokes here?" Roger asked. He grabbed a young man passing by. "Are there any birds here? Like, at all?" 

The young man seemed bewildered to be asked such a random question. 

"They're all upstairs with Bill Wyman," he said. 

"What? You can't be serious, how many are there?" 

The guy shrugged. "I dunno. Hundreds?" 

"Hundreds," Roger said flatly. He let the guy go, who scurried off. "Well, great." 

Pete only shrugged, secretly thrilled that he wouldn't have to suffer through this party alone. "I guess we can get some drinks or something." 

Roger immediately perked up, but not at what Pete said. "Wait, there's a girl right over there."

Pete followed Roger's line of sight and saw the blond girl that caught Roger's attention, wandering with her group. 

"I dunno Rog, she's with three guys and one of them could be her boyfriend." 

Roger didn't hear him. He raced off to the bar, grabbed two drinks and made a beeline for her, leaving Pete alone. 

"Or I can stand here. By myself." 

Pete sighed. What was it about large crowds that made people feel lonely? Is it seeing everyone else with their friends, a harsh reminder that one was alone? And who could stand out in a crowd? The more people come together, the more someone is just another face in the crowd. Is this why we worship, whether it be rock stars or religious figures? If only to look up and see someone that has risen above, someone familiar to the masses but who could not distinguish a face out of the crowd themselves? Wouldn't it be more lonely, to stand at the top, and look down to see faces looking up at you with no way to relate to them anymore, for if you put yourself at their level, they would grovel even more? 

And Pete decided to get a drink before anyone questioned why there was a weirdo in the corner talking to himself. 

\--------------------

John and Keith followed Jimmy through the sweaty crowd until he led them to a small room in one of the hallways. He opened the door and waved them inside. 

A few plush chairs surrounded a small coffee table, which held the biggest feast of drugs that John had ever seen in his life. He recognized pot, acid, uppers, downers, and various other things that he couldn't even name. Keith didn't hesitate, he grabbed a few of the uppers and popped one, pocketing the rest for later. John worried if that was rude, taking their host's drugs without permission or waiting for them to be offered. 

Fortunately, Jimmy didn't seem to mind. He sat down in one of the chairs and they did the same. 

"I think I should start by saying that I invited you here for a few... selfish reasons on my part." Jimmy reached out to the table, but didn't grab any of the hard drugs, instead taking a pre-rolled joint and lighting it. 

"So, why did you invite us?" John asked as Jimmy took a hit off the joint and passed it to him. 

"Well, first things first, The Yardbirds are breaking up," Jimmy replied as John took a drag. 

"Oh shit," John said. He passed the joint to Keith. "I'm sorry to hear that." Because he supposed that's what you're supposed to say to news like that. 

"It's alright," Jimmy said. "This is giving me a chance to start anew, form a new band. I've already got a singer." Jimmy's mouth could barely hide a wistful smile and his eyes briefly cast down. If John didn't know any better, he'd say that Jimmy Page almost looked...shy, like a school boy with a crush. 

Keith took a comically long puff on the joint (seriously, he had the lung capacity of an elephant) before passing it back to Jimmy. 

"So," Jimmy said. "Cards on the table now. I want you two to be the bassist and drummer for The New Yardbirds. What do you say?" 

John would keep this a secret for the rest of his fucking life, but he actually considered Jimmy's offer. For one thing, Keith still had the fading bruises from when Roger punched him and broke his nose for selling drugs and giving them away to John and Pete. And even though he and Pete grew up together, he still felt like Pete either intentionally or unintentionally sabotaged their success, possibly to avoid becoming 'sellouts' and keep their artistic merit, or some bullshit like that. 

He looked over to Keith, hoping to read what he would be thinking. To his surprise, Keith shook his head. 

"Sorry, mate. Don't get me wrong, I'm flattered that you would consider us. But we've got something good with The Who and we've got our own style that I feel wouldn't mesh well with yours. If you ask me, it would go down like a lead Zeppelin. I think you would be better off if we stayed with our band, you know what I saying?" 

John nodded in agreement, because he would follow Keith to the depths of hell. 

Jimmy looked down for moment before nodding as well. 

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said. "But if that's what you think, then it's for the best. No hard feelings, take what you like and go ahead and enjoy the rest of the party."

Keith grabbed a few more joints and pills before he and John headed back out to the party, leaving Jimmy behind in the room. 

"Can't say that I expected that," Keith said, sorting Jimmy's gifts into the secret pockets in his jacket. "Should we tell Pete and Roger?"

"Absolutely not," John replied. "Roger's got a major inferiority complex even though he doesn't like to show it and Pete would start to interpret every negative thing we say as a threat to leave the band." 

Back in the tiny room, Jimmy continued to smoke the joint, thinking about what to do. A familiar blond head peered into the doorway. 

"Oh, there you are, Pagey!" Robert exclaimed. He bounded into the room and sat next to Jimmy. "How did it go?"

Jimmy shrugged. "They said no." 

Robert jutted out his lip in an adorable pout. "Oh, darn." But his sunny disposition quickly came back. "But don't worry, I still have a chance to convince John to come play drums for us. As long as we pay him up front, he can convince his wife to let him go back into music."

Jimmy smiled, Robert's optimism rubbing off on him. "And I have a friend who's a session musician. He can play bass pretty well." 

"See? Everything will always work out." Robert grabbed Jimmy's hands and pulled him to the door. "Might as well party a little bit, right?" he said with a wink. 

\--------------------

The four members of Queen quickly met up to decide what they were going to do for the night. John went straight for the snack table while Freddie announced that he was going to 'mingle,' which Brian interpreted as trying to start as much drama as he could get away with. 

That left Brian and Roger, and they still kept hearing hoots and whistles as they wandered through the crowd. 

"Who is everyone whistling at?" Roger said, looking around. "I thought someone said that all of the women went upstairs with fucking Wyman."

Brian sighed. "I think they're whistling at you, Roger." 

Roger furrowed his eyebrows. "There's no way I can be mistaken for a girl again. That's why I grew the mustache." 

Roger pointed to his upper lip, and if Brian felt generous then he could say that the tiny, wispy blond hairs on Roger's lip could be a mustache when shone under the right light. But he wasn't. 

"No one sees any mustache, Roger." Before either of them could say anything else, a man with a mane of curly blond hair strolled up to them holding two drinks. Roger stared at the man, mouth agape. 

"I- Roger Daltrey?" he asked, hopelessly star-struck. The front-man for one of his favorite bands was standing in front of him. And said front-man stood a full head shorter than him. 

Roger Daltrey didn't seem too bothered by this, giving his most charming smile and offering one of the drinks to him. 

"And you look like a lovely lady who could use a drink." 

What. 

What. 

_What the fuck?!_

__Roger's thoughts flew through his head. So Brian was right, he did look like a woman. But this possibly meant he had a chance to hang out with fucking Roger Daltrey if he pretended to be a girl for a night. Would it be moral? Ethical? What was the difference between the two anyway? How far was he willing to go for this? What would Freddie say about this? Would he have to go to confession after this? Was he even Catholic? God, he didn't know what was what anymore!_ _

__On the outside, Roger graciously accepted the drink._ _

__"I would love one, thank you." He didn't dare look over to see Brian giving him that incredulous stare of his._ _

__Roger Daltrey gave Brian a sort of side-eyed glare and Roger Taylor figured that it would probably be bad form for him to be a girl hitting on a guy while another stood by and watched, looking down on them with his arms crossed._ _

__He cleared his throat. "Um, Brian," he said his voice unintentionally taking on a feminine flair. "Would you mind grabbing us some snacks?"_ _

__This time he did look over at Brian, who only raised an eyebrow before heading off to the snack tables. He'd better not grab anything that would make Roger's (either Rogers') breath smell bad._ _

__"So, love," Roger Daltrey began to ask as he led Roger over to an empty couch to sit down. "What's your name?"_ _

__Roger quickly racked his brain for a suitable answer without taking what would be considered too long to remember one's own name. What was a good feminine version of Roger?_ _

__"Rogerina?"_ _

__"Hm? Regina?"_ _

__"...uh huh."_ _


	2. Get Some Satisfaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ingredients for this recipe for disaster come together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written by an introverted freak.

Mick abandoned his post as the gracious host greeting guests at the door to find his guitarist (by which he meant Keith, obviously, since they were the Glimmer Twins and he had only a vague idea of where Brian went). He found Keith in one of the smaller guest bedrooms strumming his guitar. 

"There you are," Mick said as a sigh of relief. "Come on, the party's almost in full swing now."

Keith puffed on his cigarette and sighed. Mick sat down next to him, looping his arms around Keith's right. 

"Keith," Mick whined, putting his head on Keith's shoulder. "You have to come down to the party with me." 

Keith huffed. "It's your party, why do I need to be there?" 

"It's not my party. It's The Rolling Stones' party. It'd be kind of pathetic if I was the only member there." 

"You can't ask anyone else to be there with you?" 

Mick pouted, because that hurt a little. "Charlie's at home with his wife, it's scrapbooking night. Bill's in the middle of a fucking orgy, and I think Brian got on the roof somewhere." He counted each member off on his fingers in succession. 

Still, Keith turned away and focused on his guitar. Mick figured he needed to bring in the big guns. He wrapped his arms around Keith's neck and brought his lips to his ear. 

"Please?" he whispered. "You know I'll make it worth your while." 

Keith groaned, but not in a way Mick would've liked. 

"You're not getting sick of it, Mick?" Keith asked. "Throwing these expensive parties just because?" 

Mick rolled his eyes. "Not 'just because,'" he said. "It's important to keep connections in this business. And also to make up for the disaster that my birthday turned out to be." 

"So it is about that," Keith said. He shrugged Mick off, who readily let him go so he could huff and cross his arms in a completely mature way. 

"I'll never forgive Paul McCartney for what he did." Remembering the stunt the Beatle pulled at his birthday party was enough to almost bring tears to his eyes. 

"Then you'll have to take it up with him," Keith replied. "It's not that big of a deal." 

Mick gasped. "Keith, our masterpiece-" 

Keith waved him off. "You only threw this party so you could NOT invite the Beatles. I'd rather you leave me out of it." 

Mick stood up. If Keith just wanted to sit alone in this room possibly shooting up drugs, then that's what he'll get. 

"Well, fine then. I'll just be downstairs having fun. Maybe with someone else!" 

He left the room and slammed the door, as if he wasn't the one who essentially got kicked out of a room in their own home. He and Keith basically had an open relationship, but it seemed like a good hookup would be the best thing to get back at Keith. Too bad David couldn't make it...

____________________

 

From the few minutes that he knew her, Roger could already tell that Regina wasn't like most girls (at least he's pretty sure she said that, but it almost sounded like she said 'Rogerina' but nobody in their right mind would name their daughter that). For one thing, most girls he flirted with would often act demure, playing with their hair or shyly looking away. 

Instead, she sat confidently facing him, never turning her gaze away. Roger turned his gaze down to her fabulous legs, which she had casually crossed at the ankles. Her arm lay draped over the back of the couch, with her other hand holding the drink he got her. 

"So," Roger began. "What brings you here?" 

"Does anyone really need a reason to come out and have a good time?" Regina said with a smile before taking a sip of her drink. "I'm here with my band. Our singer, uh, knew the right people in order to get invitations." 

"Singer? Someone didn't see you and think to put you at the front of the stage?" 

Regina shrugged. "Well, I do sing. But I mostly play the drums. Just means that I'm good with my hands." She said the last sentence with a wink. 

Holy hell, Roger thought he just might fall in love by the end of the night. But he was worried about something else. 

"So those other blokes were your band mates?" he asked, to which she nodded. "Are you... You're not involved with any of them, right?" 

Her eyes widened. "Uh, no. We're just mates. We've never really thought, you know, about that." 

Roger furrowed his eyebrow. "Well now I have to wonder: you're at the center of three hormonal teen-aged boys and not one of them made overtures?" 

Regina looked to the side. "Uh, well. Freddie's gay (I think), Brian's a huge nerd decades before girls will find that attractive, and John's seventeen so he's not allowed to think about stuff like that yet." 

Roger nodded along, glad to know that her friends won't be much of a threat to him until she mentioned ages. 

"And you're over eighteen, right?" he asked. 

"Yeah, I'm eighteen." 

Roger sighed in relief, because in this universe he wasn't going to have sex with anyone under that age. 

____________________

Freddie intended on a night of harmless fun, starting trouble, rubbing elbows with bona fide rock stars, with maybe some harmless flirting and a bit of substance use. He quickly scanned the crowd, picking out John and Brian, knowing that Roger couldn't be far off wherever Brian was. Freddie may have been the new guy before John joined, but he was still the oldest and he felt that came with a certain responsibility. 

In a dark corner, Freddie spotted a bloke with dark hair sitting by himself. As he came closer, he recognized the fellow as Jeff Beck, from The Yardbirds. 

Curiosity killed the cat, they like to say, but satisfaction brought it back. Freddie decided to make the move to sit down next to the brooding guitarist. 

"This doesn't seem like the sort of party to be sitting by yourself," Freddie said.

Jeff Beck looked startled, as if he didn't expect anyone out of this crowded room to approach him. Probably for good reason, since it's easiest to disappear in a crowded room. 

"I-" he started, not sure what to make of the random stranger sitting next to him. "I'm not really in a mood for partying, but I was hoping..." He trailed off again and scanned the room, likely looking for someone.

Freddie put on his best flirtatious smile without showing his teeth. "Well, whatever it is maybe I can get your mind off of it." 

Jeff's nervous gaze flickered to Freddie, back to the crowd, and back to Freddie again. 

"Uh, sorry. It's not that I'm not flattered or anything, but I just got out of a relationship." 

Everything about Jeff Beck's nervous mannerisms suggested that it wasn't a very pleasant split. 

"Did you want to talk about it?" Freddie asked. 

Jeff's lip quivered for a moment before the dam broke.

"I just feel so underappreciated and used!" he wailed. "He got together with someone else too soon after we broke up, and I can't help but feeling that he dropped me for the first pretty ass he saw." 

Freddie swirled the drink in his hand, wondering if he was the best person to be giving out relationship advice. But he was going to anyway.

"It sounds like it didn't mean that much to him," Freddie said. Jeff only sniffled in reply. "But you don't have to take this, you're only hurting yourself by holding on." 

*

From across the room, Robert Plant saw the two brunets talking to each other. 

He got Jimmy's attention by tugging on his sleeve. "Pagey, who is that?" 

Jimmy panicked, seeing that Robert was gesturing to Jeff talking with some other bloke. 

"Uh, which one do you mean?" 

"Dark hair, funny teeth." 

Jimmy sighed in relief. "I have no idea who that is." 

Robert folded his arms and pursed his lips. "I don't like him." 

Jimmy wondered if he would regret asking, but: "You don't even know him?" 

"I just have this feeling that he will become bigger than I am and any attempt to perform in close proximity to him will just end in me embarrassing myself." 

Jimmy took a closer look at the kid. Well, he did have funny teeth, but not in a hideously crooked sort of way, they just protruded a bit too far out when he opened his mouth. And while Jimmy was just starting to get Robert's career off the ground, he hadn't heard of this guy at all. 

However, Jimmy only shrugged. "Well, he looks young. Maybe this will be after our prime."

Robert pouted. "But I'm younger than him!" 

Jimmy blinked, looking from Robert to the kid and back again. "How can you possibly know that?"

*

Jeff cried on Freddie's shoulder. 

"There there." Freddie comfortingly patted Jeff's arm. He's had plenty of experience dealing with crying drunk people, mostly due to Roger. He gently pulled away and wiped away the tears using the sleeve of his shirt, carefully avoiding the snot running out of Jeff's nose. 

"See?" Freddie continued. "No more tears. You are your own man. You can't be defined by another person. This is your chance to go out and show the world what you are made of." 

Jeff sniffed. "You're right. I'm only holding myself back. My life has been focused on another person for too long, I need to care for me." 

He stood up and turned back to Freddie. "Thank you, uh-" 

"Freddie."

"Right, Freddie." And with that, Jeff disappeared into the crowd with the possibility that he and Freddie would never see each other again. Maybe. I don't know. 

____________________

 

"If we go up the north stairs, we should be able to get to the stash out of the window in the room, first door to the right." It seemed that Keith had the blueprints to this place memorized. 

A normal person might question Keith about how he managed to stow away a stash of paraphernalia into the gutter of one of the biggest rock stars in the world, but John knew Keith well enough that he'd only shrug and say "I know some people" if asked.

Instead, John grabbed a couple of drinks from a table. 

"Why do we need to get into it so soon?" He handed Keith a drink. "There's plenty of free drugs and alcohol here and the night's still young." 

Keith pursed his lips. "A very good point, my man. Save the really good stuff for later." He downed the drink in one go. He lowered the glass and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. 

John followed suit before they began downing several shots at once. Keith tugged on his sleeve and pointed across the room.

"John, do you see the bird with Roger over there?" he asked. John followed his line of sight and indeed, there was Roger on the couch a short ways away chatting up a blond. 

"Is anyone shocked?" he said. "The only girl at the party and the local man-whore's already got his sights set on her." It was also typical of Roger to emphasize that they needed to go to this party to make connections in the music business, only for him to abandon that idea at the first sign of a vagina. 

"No, really look at her." 

John squinted, his eyesight already beginning to swim due to the alcohol. The girl had blond hair, a slim figure, and seemed to be a great deal taller than Roger, which he could be trying to hide by sitting on the arm rest rather than the seat proper. 

"What, that she's taller than him?" 

Keith shook his head. "Look at her. It's like Roger's trying to fuck a female clone of himself." 

Well she did have the blond hair. And the blue eyes. And the rather... distinguished nose and cupid bow lips. The only differences were that she (obviously) had softer, feminine features compared to Roger's chiseled jaw and that her hair wasn't nearly as curly, though it did look like a longer version of when Roger straightened his hair. 

John snorted and began to laugh, the cocktail of drugs and alcohol in his system making him laugh harder than he normally would.

"Oh my God, he is, isn't he?" 

Keith nudged him in the side. "Shall pop on over and say hello?" 

"I...wouldn't."

John knew that he wanted to give Roger shit for this, but sabotaging Roger's chances of getting laid would definitely create some new bruises for Keith, and John felt that he needed to keep Keith off the path of danger. 

"Hey guys." Pete approached their spot at the tables. "What did Jimmy Page want to talk to you about?" 

"Well you know, stuff." John quickly shoved something into his mouth to avoid having to go into detail. It tasted vaguely seafood related. 

Thankfully, Pete didn't seem that interested and only seemed to be making small talk for the sake of small talk. He grabbed some crackers with some sort of weird cheese on it and made to head back to where Roger was sitting. 

"Uh." John quickly reached out and grabbed Pete's arm. "Where are you going?" 

"To hang out with Roger?" He said it like a kid giving an answer that he's sure is the wrong one. 

John may feel that Pete could be a pretentious little shit at times, but they were still friends and John felt it best to keep Pete away from the dragon, so to speak. 

John shook his head. "Maybe you should find someone else to talk to at the party."

Pete frowned. "Maybe I can just hang out with you and Keith then." 

"Well, yeah, but you're not going to expand your social circle but just clinging to the only friends you have at a party like this, you introverted freak." 

Pete looked down at the table, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of meeting new people. "Aren't you just going to stay with Keith the whole time?" 

"Here," John continued, "I'll help you out. Excuse me." He tapped on the shoulder of another party-goer hanging by the snack table. He was tall, thin, and had a ridiculous mane of curly hair. 

Curly turned to face them. John waved his hand in an exaggerated fashion.

"Hi, what's your name?" 

"Uh, Brian?" Curly answered. 

"Right. I'm John, and this is Pete. Pete, this is Brian. What do you like to do Brian?" 

Curly blinked at this insane turn of events. "Uh, well, I'm studying physics in school and I play guitar in a band."

John nodded enthusiastically before shoving the two of them closer together. "Is that so? Pete plays guitar as well. You two can keep talking." And John left.

____________________

 

In John Deacon's opinion, the best part about a party is all the free food. That didn't seem to be the case here. He expected crisps and dip, maybe even pizza. But instead he got a complicated assortment of vegetables, cheeses and bread that would look more at home in a five-star restaurant than at a party. 

He closely inspected an assortment of cucumber slices with some fancy dressing on top of them, done up like a swirl of cupcake frosting when he heard a voice behind him. 

"You alright, mate? You look like you can use something to mellow out."

John looked at the fellow and saw him offering tiny little baggies filled with some sort of white powder. 

Holy shit that's drugs. 

John took a deep breath. He felt like every moment of his schooling trained him for this moment. Every assembly and special classroom guests telling him and his classmates about how drug pushers will not take no for an answer and that you will have to come up with some sort of creative comeback for when they inevitably call you a loser or something to try to get you to cave in and take their free drugs. 

He held up his hand. "Uh, no thanks." 

The guy nodded. "It's cool. Right on, man." And then he walked away. 

Jesus Fucking Christ, it was that easy the whole time?!

A tray of delicious looking cocktails sat next to the table. John stared at them, thinking about how he was basically lied to his whole life. He grabbed a drink, a tall glass with pink liquid in it with a cherry on top. If he was lied to about how to handle drugs, then alcohol, the thing that is actually legal in most countries, can't be nearly as bad. 

He took a drink. 

____________________

 

Brian wondered what to do. He and Pete Townshend, two abysmally socially awkward people it seemed, were forced together to make conversation. Brian thought he saw John, Queen's John, somewhere, but he seemed to have disappeared somewhere. 

"So, uh," Brian started, not knowing what direction to take this. "What kind of guitar do you play?" 

Pete lit up. "Oh, I prefer Fender Stratocasters right now. What about yourself?" 

"I built mine." 

Something about Pete Townshend's face hardened, and Brian wasn't sure why because he certainly wasn't the kind of guy who made other men feel threatened. 

So he continued to speak. "I wanted a guitar that could create that cool feedback effect without having to wave it in front of the amp." 

Pete shook his head. "Well I was going to sit with my singer, but he's a little preoccupied with someone right now." 

"Oh, Roger?" 

Pete nodded. "Yeah, managed to find the only girl in the party?"

Brian pressed his lips together, since he meant Queen's Roger and it had slipped out without him meaning to. 

"Uh, yeah, she's my friend." 

If Pete noticed that the feminine pronoun came out a little forced, he didn't say anything. 

"Oh, maybe we could head over there together," Pete said instead. 

In the back of Brian's mind, he had a sense that that may not be the best idea. But he was sent over here to get snacks and he needed to find a way to talk Roger, Queen's Roger, out of this insanity. 

He piled random snacks onto a plate and walked with Pete back over to the couch. Roger Daltrey glared at the both of them. Pete sat on the other side of Roger Taylor, completely oblivious to his band-mate's simmering rage, and that left no room for Brian to sit. He instead stood awkwardly to the side. 

"Pete," Roger Daltrey said sternly. "Can I talk to you for a moment?" 

The two of them went a few feet away to talk, but it left them in total privacy because this actually was a big, noisy party so Brian and Roger couldn't hear them. 

"What exactly are you doing?" Brian asked Roger, a hint maniacally. 

"Come on, Brian," Roger said. "This is my chance to hang out with one of my favorite rock stars." 

Brian rubbed his forehead. The area around his eyebrows was starting to hurt from scrunching them so much. 

"Okay, but you do realize that he's probably looking to get laid." Roger only shrugged in response. "What are you going to do about that?" 

"I've just been flirting with him the same way I flirt with girls and it's been working well enough." 

Brian's mouth fell open and he blinked multiple times, as if his brain was short-circuiting trying to process what Roger said. 

"Roger... That is so not what I meant." 

"Oh come on. If it gets that far, I'll just tell him that I'm nervous, that I've changed my mind, or something. He seems nice and that he'll respect my wishes for what I want to do with my body." 

Brian wanted to say anything to make this stop, for them to drop everything and to go home and just order a pizza and maybe watch late-night television. Because he couldn't possibly see how it could end well. 

However, even though Brian decided to study the universe doesn't mean it will go his way, because Freddie ran up to them with a maniacal gleam in his eye. 

"Dears! You won't believe who just arrived!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I spent less time editing so don't be afraid to point out grammatical errors.


	3. Experienced

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops

"Freddie," Brian said before he could say anything else, because screw the cliffhanger, whatever Freddie had to say could wait until they put a stop to this madness. "You have to talk Roger out of this." 

Their front man furrowed his eyebrows, looking between Brian and Roger. 

"Talk him out of what?" 

"He's pretending to be a girl so he could seduce Roger Daltrey." 

Roger huffed. "M' not 'seducing' him," he said. "I mean, wouldn't you want to hang out with one of your favorite rock stars? I mean, they’re not going to talk to some random kid who wandered in here." 

Freddie could subconsciously sense Brian's blood pressure going through the roof. "Well, maybe there's someone a little more high profile than-"

"Regina?" Roger Daltrey called. Freddie stopped in mid-sentence and saw the approaching front-man, even mouthing 'Regina?' to Brian. 

Roger Taylor turned to Roger Daltrey. "Oh, Roger, this is Freddie. I told about him, he's our singer." 

Daltrey furrowed his eyebrow, seemingly trying to size Freddie up, before his features brightened. 

"Oh! The gay one, right?" he said cheerfully, likely because he couldn't see Freddie as a threat anymore. Brian took note of Roger Daltrey's short stature and figured that that explained the complex.

Freddie frowned at Roger Daltrey's comment. 

Seeing Freddie's expression, Daltrey glanced nervously towards Roger Taylor, who apparently is now Regina? Brian knew that their only hope of things returning to normal was escaping from this hell house. 

"Uh, you are gay, right?" Roger Daltrey asked nervously. 

Freddie raised one elegant eyebrow. "I'm afraid that my sexuality is a lot more nuanced and fluid than that, my dear, to the point that people will be arguing about it for decades after my death, whether I want them to or not. The only thing that people will know for sure is that I like men." He waved to Roger Taylor. "Well, go on dear. Have your fun. Be sure to bring home a delicious story to tell." Freddie then walked off towards the direction of the crowd forming at the front door. 

Brian couldn't believe it. His only hope for stopping this nonsense evaporated into the air. He watched as Daltrey grabbed Queen's Roger's hand and led him away. Pete Townshend came up to him with an expression that emulated a kicked puppy. 

Pete stopped in front of him. "Did you want to go hang out somewhere?" He said it like a big sigh. 

Brian shrugged. "Might as fucking well." They already had in common that their friends all fucked off to go do something else. 

They both grabbed drinks and headed upstairs, since the main room was beginning to get too claustrophobic for them. Out of the numerous rooms in the mansion, they picked the one that seemed the least likely to be hosting some form of coupling in the present or future. The room was painted an ungodly pink color, and stuffed with expensive looking furniture and knick-knacks. Brian wondered if there was something about becoming a rich rock star that compelled people to spend money on useless expensive shit. 

Pete sat down on one of the numerous couches- was that a Victorian fainting couch?- before laying down on it. Brian thought that it looked like a scene in a psychiatrist's office to anyone who walked in, especially with him sitting in a relatively normal chair just across from Pete.

Pete sighed melodramatically. "I don't get why he does this. I mean, she's just a girl."

"And, uh, she's also my friend," Brian retorted. And here he was defending his best friend from the sexist culture of the 1960s because Roger insisted on playing along with everyone mistaking him for a girl when he normally squawks in outrage, all because Roger Daltrey had his eye on him. Some semblance of normalcy was apparently too much to ask for Queen. 

Unaware of Brian's steadily rising blood pressure and tumultuous thoughts, Pete only winced and apologized. "Right, sorry." He scooted up the couch to be able to more comfortably rest his head on the pillow leaning against the armrest. "It's just that, he always runs off to fuck groupies, like that's the only thing gives him any sort of fulfillment, but not just hanging out with us, seeing what it does when he gives a voice to what I've written." He sighed. "I guess I'm just too damaged." 

"Damaged how?" Brian asked, trying to be conversational, expecting a short but polite answer. 

"Well, I think it all started when my parents separated, and I was sent to live with my grandmother..." 

Brian didn't know that he could hate the universe any more than he did before. 

____________________

Mick Jagger enjoyed being the center of attention. He reveled in it, because he didn't become a singer for a world famous rock band to play the shy introvert. Small pockets of drama were inevitable in such a large gathering, but the majority of the attention was on him, and not a certain member of The Beatles. 

But even when he was surrounded by hordes of his admirers, he could still tell that something was...off. Mick saw large portions of the crowd racing to the door, so he couldn't blame his imagination. No, he had the same sinking feeling that he did when he saw Paul McCartney's stupid, smirking face. 

He worked his way to the front under the guise of playing the gracious host, and who did he find at his front door other than Jimi Fuckin' Hendrix. 

And of course Jimi was the most gracious person to ever grace the Earth. He responded to people fawning over him with genuine humility. Mick watched as he signed one familiar fellow’s scrap of paper with a shy smile, looking concerned when said fellow just about fainted into another’s arms. 

He was the host after all, so Mick put on a fake smile.

“Jimi! I didn’t realize that you could come. I thought you all would still be in America.”

Hendrix looked up and shrugged. “We were in town and taking a break from tour. I hope it’s alright that we stopped by.”

Mick’s party was being hijacked, again, and the worst part was that he felt bad for being angry about it. Unlike McCartney, who was a smug bastard who thought he was funny, Mick sensed that Jimi and the rest of his bandmates (who Mick couldn’t name for the life of him which he felt bad about because there’s no doubt that they were really talented musicians if they were members of the Jimi Hendrix Experience) just wanted to have a good time. So Mick felt trapped. 

“It’s no problem, man,” Mick said. “Go on and make yourself at home.” Jimi smiled kindly and continued to be swarmed by his adoring fans. Feeling lightheaded and dizzy, Mick made his way for the stairs. 

This is fine. It’s fine. He’s fine. Mick feels fine. He threw a party so people could have a good time and that’s what’s happening. It’s fine. It’s fine. This is fine. He’s fine. 

A voice cut into Mick’s mantra. “Uh, Mick?”

“Fuck!” Mick yelled before turning around to face the hapless roadie that managed to get an invite. “Yes, what is it?” he said, considerably calmer. 

The kid looked nervous, for good reason. 

“Uh, you said no one was allowed to go into the, uh, ‘rose room?’” he said. “Two people just went in there.” 

Mick huffed through his nostrils. 

“What?” The rose room was where he stashed his most valuable items so they wouldn’t get destroyed during the party (due to in part because Jimmy Page managed to convince him to invite The Who). It had his antiques, all the crap rock stars are supposed to blow their money on, his secret shrine to Sister Rosetta Tharpe… If any of it got destroyed, there will be fucking fireworks. 

Mick took off, leaving the bearer of bad news to merely shrug and head back downstairs, where Jimi Hendrix was currently playing a few songs to the delight of his admirers. 

____________________

With Jimi Hendrix's big arrival, hardly anyone bothered Jimmy and Robert. That suited Jimmy just fine, as much as he loved showing off Robert like an old billionaire shows off his trophy wife. At the end of the night, Jimmy only wanted to spend time with him. They were still in the lovey-dovey part of a new relationship, so Robert hung off of Jimmy everywhere they went, whispering naughty things in his ear and stuff like that. The few that could tear their gaze away from Hendrix long enough to notice didn't care at all because, come on, this was a sausage-fest of a party thrown by Mick-fucking-Jagger. 

At one point, Robert tore himself away from Jimmy to pore over the fancy food strategically placed along the snack table. Jimmy couldn't say that Robert's childlike wonder at the aspects of the world that Jimmy is bringing him into doesn't endear him. Although, even with Jimmy's knowledge of the Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous due to being a part of a successful band and prolific studio musician, he couldn't tell whether the abundance of sliders was due to a new fad or because Mick expected everyone to get stoned tonight. 

All thoughts that went off track from the story halted in place when Jimmy saw someone familiar barreling towards him like a steam train fueled on anger. 

"Uh, Robert?" Jimmy asked. "Could you get us more drinks?" 

Robert looked away from the snack table to look at the full drink in Jimmy's hand. "Uh, Pagey?"

Jimmy quickly dumped the drink into the soil of a houseplant that was conveniently nearby and handed the empty glass to Robert. Still confused, Robert took the cup and went off to get it refilled. 

Jeff stopped just short of running Jimmy down and pointed in the direction where Robert went. 

"And who was that?" 

Jimmy briefly wondered if there was anything worse than being confronted by an angry, drunken ex. 

"Jeff-"

Jeff cut him off. "I think I deserve to know! Just admit it, you just left me for the first pretty ass you saw. It's either that or you've been cheating on me."

Jimmy sighed, knowing that this conversation had been a long time coming. 

"Jeff, you have to realize that we had been drifting apart towards the end." 

"But why, Jimmy?" Jeff asked, despaired. "If you would just talk to me we wouldn't have fallen apart like that." 

Jimmy looked around nervously, worried that they could possibly draw attention away from Hendrix on to this soap opera they had going on here.

"There are just some things you can't say with words," Jimmy said, keeping his voice low. 

"You know what I think?" Jeff's voice was steadily gaining decibels. "I should have been the one to quit you, babe. You ain't nothing but a no-good, two bit jive." 

"Jeff, when you left the band, it just got difficult. One of us was either touring or recording, we just couldn't find time together anymore." 

"And what about him?" Jeff jabbed a thumb in the direction Robert went. Thankfully, Robert hadn't come back yet, perhaps he could sense that he still needed to stay away do to weird hippy magic. 

Jimmy couldn't answer about Robert, but his silence was all he needed. 

"Oh," Jeff said quietly. "So he's a part of this new band you're putting together." 

Jimmy sighed. "Jeff-" 

"Oh it's fine," Jeff said. "You only want to fuck people who are your band mates cause your weird complex to have to control everything." 

God, Jeff was a bitchy drunk. 

"But it doesn't matter anymore. I've decided to live for me, a new me who doesn't need to depend on others for self fulfillment." He turned to walk away but couldn't resist turning back for one more jab. 

"One more thing, I already called Chris about you still using the Yardbirds' name. He doesn't like that." And with that, he scurried off. 

Jimmy groaned in frustration because not only did he have to confront his belligerent ex at a party where he had hoped to recruit the remaining members of his band which is why he convinced Mick to invite them but they said no anyway, he now needs to change the band name which is a pain in the ass because they already have flyers, posters advertising The New Yardbirds, now they'll have to come up with a new name and spend more money on-

Jimmy's racing thoughts came to a halt when he felt Robert's arms wrap around him. 

"You seem tense, Pagey," he murmured into Jimmy's ear. 

Jimmy instantly relaxed. He shouldn't worry. He could somehow sense that him and Robert would be all right no matter what. 

"You know," Robert said, his voice dropping a register in a way that made Jimmy's skin break out in goose pimples. "I can think of a way to help you relax." 

He grinned. They would be all right, indeed.

____________________

John Entwistle was normally considered The Quiet One, compared to the rest of The Who. Of course, that came about only because he never destroyed his bass onstage, hardly ever helped his band mates destroy their instruments, and because he often got ignored when it came to interviews and recording performances. Off the stage and behind the cameras, John found it all too easy to get caught up with Keith's shenanigans. Of course, there were times when he had to wonder how it got to this point. 

"This might actually be a bad idea."

"Just a bit lower, mate," Keith called up. John already lowered him enough so that he was hanging on to Keith's ankles, but still he began to lean further out of the window. He hooked his leg around a nearby table to anchor him down in order to get half his torso out the window without sending both him and Keith careening down to the concrete below. 

John could see Keith's fingers barely grasp whatever was stuffed into the gutter (and thank god that it didn't rain, John thought). He inched further out of the window. 

"What are we doing?" a voiced whispered in his ear. 

"Jesus fuck!" John nearly dropped Keith. He turned to the source of the new voice that nearly scared him shitless and saw a kid no older than eighteen (most likely younger) and very, very obviously drunk. Thankfully, Keith gave the signal to pull him up and John quickly did so before anything else came along. 

Keith got on his feet with the bag of goodies and saw the newcomer. 

"What's this then?"

The kid giggled, rubbing his face with his hands. "I'm soooo drunk right now."

Oh dear god. 

John wanted to put his head in his hands in second-hand embarrassment (ignoring the fact that he and Keith were totally the same way when they first started drinking and doing drugs). Keith only nodded and pulled a bottle out of the bag. 

"First timer, eh? Here's one on the house." He handed it to the kid who looked at the suspicious, unmarked bottle for only a moment before raising it to his lips to take a drink. Whatever concoction Keith had in there hit the kid like a freight train. His eyes widened, pulling the bottle away, but he didn't spit it out. He held his fist to his mouth and seemingly forced himself to swallow. 

Keith began to laugh. "Atta boy!" He slapped the kid across the back, causing him to cough. 

"What's your name then?" Keith asked as the kid recovered. 

John frowned. He had been hoping that it would just be the two of them raising hell tonight, but Keith, the extroverted attention-lover, was always looking to make new friends. 

"Uh, John," the kid replied. Keith looked over at John Entwistle. 

"There's too many fucking Johns here, anything else you go by?" 

John the Kid furrowed his brow and John the Elder could tell that he was trying to think, but the alcohol had made his head foggy to the point where simply thinking required immense amounts of concentration. 

"Well, my friends call me Deaky," he finally replied. "I think." The kid seemed to have slight trouble standing and thinking about what his name was at the same time. 

Keith grabbed the bottle and took a swig from his own foul concoction before handing it over to John to drink. John did so and made a face as his tongue went numb. It tasted strong enough to run a car. 

"Well, I think enough time has passed that the real fun can get started," Keith said. 

Deaky's face lit up. "What are we doing then?" 

John sighed, and figured that the more the merrier. He should be thankful that they didn't end up with someone who would rat them out to Jagger. 

"Let's see." Keith dug around in his bag. "I've got all the good stuff here. Firecrackers, cherry bombs, lingerie..." 

Deaky peered into the bag. "What's the lingerie for?" he asked. 

"To dress up as women," Keith said, as if it was an obvious, normal thing. He held the bag out to Deaky. "What do you say then? New kid's choice." 

Deaky reached into the bag and pulled out a lacy bra, holding it like the holy grail. Well, for a teenaged virgin, it might as well be. 

The kid noticed something out the window. He leaned out and began waving the bra around like some handkerchief. 

"Yoo hoo! Oh, Roger!" he cried in a mock-feminine voice. John barely had enough time to pull Deaky away from the window before a flowerpot flew up and crashed against the side of the window in an explosion of clay and soil. Sure enough, John caught a glimpse of Roger and that tomboyish bird from earlier. 

"Jesus Christ, kid," John growled. Keith howled with laughter behind them. "You got a fucking death wish?" Deaky only shrugged. Yeah, that’s a reasonable reaction to nearly getting killed by a hot-tempered singer.

John resisted the urge to role his eyes and marvel at the fact that he is now in charge of taking care of a drunken kid in the middle of a party. It’s probably not the greatest situation to be in, considering the cocktail of drugs and alcohol currently swimming through his system. 

Deaky attempted to lean out the window again before John roughly pulled him away. 

“Hey,” Deaky whined. “Roger’s out there.” 

“Uh, yeah.” John dragged Deaky out of the room and into the hallway with Keith following. “That’s the problem. Why are you acting like you know him anyway?” 

“Uh,” Deaky stretched the syllable out for as long as he had air in his lungs. “Cause I do? We play in a band together. I’m the bass player.” 

John raised his eyebrow. “Are you fucking serious?” 

“Wait,” Keith intervened. “Which Roger are you talking about? Roger Daltrey?” 

“Whaaaaaaat?” Deaky slurred out before laughing. “No, I mean Roger Taylor.” 

“So what you’re saying is,” Keith said slowly, “is that the bird Roger’s hanging out with is actually a bloke also named Roger?” 

Deaky looked lost and confused. “I- is that what’s happening? I’ve been spending all my time eating and drinking.” 

Keith got a spark in his eye and grinned maniacally. John could only hope that whatever he’s planning would be one for the books as well as be revenge for Roger beating the shit out of him last week. 

He rubbed his hands together in glee. “Ooh, John my boy. Get the cherry bombs, I have an idea.” 

____________________

Brian kept glancing to the door constantly trying to plan his escape but ultimately was too polite to actually go through with it. Because Pete Townshend talked about some pretty fucked up shit and Brian had no idea what to do. 

“Maybe you should see a therapist. A real one,” Brian muttered. 

Either Pete ignored him or didn’t realize that he spoke. 

“And I’ve just been so confused about my sexuality,” he said, continuing the amateur therapy session. “Lots of people say that bisexuality isn’t a real thing, so I’d have to pick a side. I mostly like girls, I think, but I don’t feel straight, you know? But I’m afraid that I’m trying to force myself into a label that I don’t fit into just to be a part of a minority group because trying to speak to a disaffected generation through music while being a white male coming from a wealthy family seems laughable at best.” 

Brian knew that this was more Freddie’s territory and wondered what he would say. 

“Well, if you don’t for sure that you’re actually faking, then you’re probably not faking,” he said. Pete finally turned to look at him. 

But of course Pete didn’t have a chance to actually talk to him. The door suddenly burst open, revealing a stewing mad Mick Jagger in the middle of a rant. 

“-rare, one of a kind priceless artifacts! If any you’ve damaged them in any way, your grandchildren will be in debt to me!” 

Brian, of course, was about to apologize and flee the room, but saw that Pete Townshend was struck speechless. At first, he thought Pete was star-struck, until he saw Pete’s eyes roam up and down Jagger’s body before stopping at his crotch. Those trousers left nothing to the imagination. 

Brian paused for a moment before quickly blurting out, “Right, then. I’m going.” He fled the room and left whatever was going on there to unfold without him.


	4. Lemon Squeezer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little steamy. Don't worry, John's underage in this story so he's not involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about cars.

John dragged Deaky around the never-ending hallways, trying in vain to find just one empty room like Keith instructed them to. For a mansion with a million different rooms, you’d think that it wouldn’t be difficult to find one that didn’t have two or more people fucking in it. And you would be wrong. 

John saw one couple that couldn’t wait until they made it into the bedroom and were furiously making out against the wall. He was about to leave them to it when he recognized one of them. 

“Oi, Jimmy!” he called. 

Jimmy Page pulled away from the blond who had his tongue shoved down his throat and gazed blearily at them. 

John wondered if he should be worried if he was starting to get used to disgusting public displays of affection. “Sorry, we’ve been trying to find an empty room around here. Do you have any idea where one might be?” 

Jimmy chuckled. “That’s what we’ve been trying to find. Jimi Hendrix’s got everyone in a frisky mood tonight. Wait.” He peered suspiciously at Deaky. “Isn’t he a little young for you?” 

It took John’s mind a few moments to catch up to what Jimmy was implying. “What? Oh, fuck no!” 

Deaky was looking into one of the decorative mirrors lining the hallway, assessing how fucked up he looked and remained blissfully ignorant. As well as it should be, since the blond was still drunkenly writhing up against Jimmy and making things awkward for everyone else. 

“No,” John repeated. “Keith’s got something planned.” Jimmy looked over at Deaky again, this time with an eyebrow raise. John thought that the little asshole shouldn’t be so judgmental over things that were not happening, considering how many teenagers Jimmy slept with in real life. “He has something planned for Roger and we need to find an empty room for it. 

Jimmy shrugged. “Well, there are no empty rooms around here. We’re starting to form a queue here if you want to join us.” 

“I-” John’s brain once again short-circuited because of what Jimmy said. “You’re not seriously waiting for a room to be free? And suggesting that we form a line?” 

As if on cue, two half-dressed men (and of course they were both men because this was Mick Jagger’s party) emerged out of the room next to Jimmy and his blond. 

“All yours, mate,” said one of the men before they both scurried away. Jimmy winked at them before disappearing inside the room and shutting the door. 

John rubbed the space between his eyebrows. 

“This is the house of sin,” he said. Deaky finally pulled away from the mirror and stumbled back to John’s side. 

“What do we do now?” he asked. 

“Well, I’m not waiting outside for Jimmy to finish getting his dick wet,” John muttered. “We keep looking. And if I run out of patience, we can throw somebody out.” 

John and Deaky continued to walk down the hallway until they encountered a door with sign that said ‘Wyman’ on it. 

John thought it over. “Supposedly an orgy is going on in there,” he said. “Do you think we could slip two people (by which I mean my Roger and your Roger) in there without anyone noticing?” 

Deaky frowned. “You just want to see the orgy.” 

“Well, that is true.” John turned the doorknob and found it surprisingly unlocked. 

“Wait, I’m too young for this!” Deaky pressed his hands into his eyes. But what John found wasn’t something that was inappropriate for seventeen-year-old bassists. 

There were women everywhere, but not the mass pile of naked, writhing limbs John expected. Rather, a bunch of fully dressed women doing innocent things. Most of them were gathered around the T.V. watching The Monkees, a few were sitting in chairs near the corner reading books, and Wyman himself sat at a table and appeared to be playing some sort of weird game that involved a lot of dice with the rest. 

John groaned in disappointment and hauled Deaky into the room while prying his hands away from his face. 

“I can’t! My innocent eyes can’t see- oh.” Deaky took a good look at all the not-sex going on and wandered to the table where Wyman sat. “Can I play?” 

“Sure!” one of the girls answered brightly. “In fact, we’re in a bit of a pinch, so it would be a huge help if you could roll up a cleric.” 

“Uh, yeah, no,” John said before clearing his throat. “Sorry, we’d love to play but we were looking for an empty room.” 

Bill furrowed his eyebrows, looking at John then towards Deaky. 

“WE’RE NOT FUCKING!” John shouted before gathering his composure again. “No, Keith’s got something planned and we need to make sure we have a room empty.” 

“Oh, one of Moonie’s famous pranks?” Bill said with a grin. “You can try the room a few doors down. I know Keith- our Keith- is holed up in there, but it shouldn’t be too hard to convince him to leave.” 

John thanked him profusely and grabbed Deaky by the arm and led him out of there. John felt like a parent dragging a whining child out of a store, which he might as well be at this point. 

“Hey,” Deaky whined. “I wanna stay.” 

“After we’re finished, you can go back and play that stupid game or whatever,” John replied. 

“Your bowl cut is stupid,” came the sullen reply. John closed his eyes and counted to ten. 

After walking a few feet with no indication of which door was the right one, John realized that ‘a few doors down’ were actually really shitty directions, especially in a huge, indulgent mansion with thousands of rooms. 

John chose a door and knocked. “Uh, Keith? Richards? You in there?” A load moan was the reply. Luckily, Deaky covered his innocent ears at the right time. 

“Do we just keep knocking?” Deaky slurred. 

Conveniently, right then the door next to them slammed open, hitting and bouncing off the wall. Keith Richards stormed out into the hallway, paying them no mind as he stomped out of sight. 

“…alright then,” John said. “Deaky, stay in the room and don’t let anybody in until Keith is ready.” 

Deaky’s head dipped forward before jerking back up. His eyelids fluttered like they were actively fighting to stay open. 

Well, that’s great. John couldn’t have the kid crashing and passing out on him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few pills. 

“Here, one of these should keep you awake.” Yeah, John realized that he was basically pushing drugs on a teenage kid, but who ever said that he was a good role model? 

Deaky blinked blearily at the pills before pushing John’s hand away. 

“Say NO to drugs!” he cried. 

John stared in bemusement for a brief moment before taking out a small bottle that he nicked downstairs and had been conveniently storing in his back pocket. It was tequila. That was good for keeping people awake, right? 

"Alcohol, then? You look like you're about to sober up and fall asleep." Yeah, that’s what’s about to happen. 

Deaky considered for a moment before nodding and grabbing the bottle. John figured that it wasn't the best time to argue about whether or not alcohol could be considered a type of drug. 

"All right, then," John said. "You stay here and make sure this room stays empty until Keith comes, got it?" 

The kid nodded before shutting himself in the room. John shook his head before running off to find Keith. This better be worth it. 

\-------------------- 

Jimmy wondered how he could possibly have down to deserve someone like Robert. Well, being a handsome and talented guitarist certainly helped. But even being able to attract anyone Jimmy set his eyes on couldn't shake the feeling that he must’ve been a saint in a past life in order for Robert to even look in his direction. Robert was like a Disney princess, singing to nature and letting birds land on his hand while Jimmy consorted with demons and anything else pertaining to the occult (which nobody can prove and this fanfiction is NOT an admission of guilt). 

Robert held on to the front of Jimmy's shirt, kissing him intensely. He didn't even wait until they moved away from where Jimmy had Robert pressed against the door. Jimmy felt Robert's hands lazily trail down to his crotch, rubbing the heel of his hand against him before moving to undo his trousers. 

Jimmy pulled Robert's hands away, ignoring Robert's groan. He (and Robert) may be too drunk to care that they were going at it in a room where two other people just fucked not five minutes ago, but Jimmy wanted to be at least somewhat of a gentleman for Robert. 

Despite the room's previous occupants, the bed looked surprisingly untouched, with the covers so tightly made you could bounce a quarter off of it. Jimmy led Robert to the bed, letting him lay down before climbing on top of him and reclaiming his lips. The blond singer grabbed Jimmy's shoulders and practically crushed them together. 

Robert broke off their intense make out session. “Oh, Jimmy,” he sighed. His head fell back against the pillow. “Please, touch me.” He wrapped his legs around Jimmy's waist to further punctuate what he wanted. 

The guitarist smirked as he began trail a hand down Robert’s torso before dipping into his sinful, skin-tight jeans. As usual, Robert didn’t wear anything underneath. Jimmy decided to go commando tonight in anticipation for a moment like this. 

Jimmy wrapped his hand around Robert’s length and slowly began to stroke. Robert whimpered and attempted to push his jeans further down. He failed to get a good grip and instead decided on running his hands up underneath Jimmy's shirt. 

“You like that, huh?” he whispered into Robert’s ear. “Tell me.” He twisted his hand on the upstroke, making Robert groan and gyrate his hips to get more of that delicious friction. 

“Oh, god, faster, please,” Robert whined. 

The combination of the alcohol and heady arousal made Jimmy’s head spin. He pressed his face into Robert’s neck as he continued to stroke. 

“Oh, Jimmy,” Robert sighed. “Oh, Jimmy, I’m almost- I’m gonna- wait, s-stop!” 

Jimmy pulled his hand away too late and watched the growing wet spot on Robert’s jeans. Except, it was coming too fast and too wet. Robert's face went completely red as he realized what happened and covered his face with his hands before turning away from Jimmy. 

“Uh oh.” 

\-------------------- 

Brian hated everything and wanted nothing more than to go home. But he couldn't do that until he rounded up the rest of his friends and hauled them out to a street where he can spend money he didn't have hailing a cab. Though just going home by himself and leaving everyone to their fates grew more and more tempting. 

Brian made his way down the stairs to the main party room, where he found a literal concert going on. And not just any concert... 

Jimi Hendrix had taken the stage that was always there and preformed for a shrieking, and likely horny crowd. Brian stared in slacked-jawed awe, mesmerized by the performance. 

And then it was over. Brian came in half way through a song and once it was finished, Jimi left the stage, insisting that three encores was enough. Brian pouted and refused to believe that listening to Pete Townshend's troubles lasted literal hours. Sometimes it felt like he entered another dimension where time was contorted to fit in with the plot. 

Brian needed to find Freddie, and correctly guessed that he would be at the front of the crowd, fawning over Jimi Hendrix. He wormed his way through the crowd, even getting on his hands and knees and crawling through the forest of legs where the crowd got really tightly packed. Brian eventually came across a familiar pair of bell-bottoms and latched on. 

Freddie looked down at him. 

"Oh, Brian. Did you see? He was amazing. He even signed my napkin for me. Look-" 

"That's great," Brian yelled over the noise of the crowd. "I'm sure seeing Jimi Hendrix preform for the eighth time is fun, but I really just want to go home." 

Freddie frowned, but nodded. 

"All right, I guess we've had enough fun," he said, though he didn't really sound like he meant it. "Let's find John and Roger. John should still be here. I think. Oh dear." 

They looked around the crowded room fruitlessly. 

"I'm a terrible friend," Freddie moaned. "I should've kept an eye on him. He hates crowds, he wouldn't be in here." 

Brian sighed. "Well, he probably went upstairs to get away from it. I can look for John and you can find Roger." 

"Oh, that won't do. I have a feeling if we split up, it will be harder to find each other again." 

Brian sighed again but conceded that Freddie was right, even though he really didn't want to find out first hand just how far Roger was willing to go with Roger Daltrey. 

"Fine," Brian said. "Let's look for John first." 

They made their way back upstairs and Brian wondered how many more times he was going to have to go back and forth inside this fucking McMansion. The hallways felt like an endless series of doors and made Brian think more of a hotel than of a rock star's mansion. 

They walked quite a while, not sure what to do, before Freddie stopped tried the door closest to them and found it locked. He pressed his ear to it and said, "yes, that's what I figured." 

"Figured what?" 

"Oh, half the crowd's obviously gone upstairs to fuck. I wouldn't be surprised if all of these rooms were occupied." Freddie said it so matter-of-factly. 

Brian cleared his throat. "You're not saying that John-" 

Freddie waved his hand and cut Brian off. "Of course not, not at his age." He pressed his finger to his lips, considering what to do. 

"What are you planning?" Brian asked. 

"It’s worth a shot," Freddie replied before moving to stand in the center of the hallway. 

"John," he loudly announced. "If you come out now, I'll make you some cheese toasties when we get home." 

A door swung open. John popped his head out. 

"Freddie?" He asked, though his voice didn't sound right to Brian. 

John beckoned them over. 

"I can't come out," he whispered to them. "I have to guard the room for John. But, could we still get cheese toasties?" 

Brian blinked. "When you say John..." 

"He should be back any minute with Roger." John groaned and slumped his head against the doorframe. 

Freddie narrowed his eyes. He grabbed John's chin and forced him to look up. Brian saw the empty bottle on the floor behind John right when Freddie said it. 

"John, you're drunk." 

John rolled his eyes. "Well, duh." 

Brian began to count backwards from 100 in his head and got to 85 before he felt calm enough to speak. 

"How much did you have to drink?" 

John shrugged. "I'unno. I had a few of the strawberry stuff. And then somebody gave me some whiskey I think? Then Keith let me have some of his drink. Then John gave me this." He pointed at the empty bottle on the floor. "It's empty." 

"Keith and John?" Freddie asked. "Never mind. We have to go home now, John." 

John shook his head. "I can't leave until-" he suppressed a burp "-until John gets back." 

"Again, who's John?" Brian asked. 

"Uh, me?" 

"Yeah, I get the feeling that's not who you are talking about." 

John's face turned green. He clutched his stomach and curled around himself. 

"Oh no" Freddie said. "No no no no no no no no no no." 

Brian grabbed the back of John's shirt and hauled him into the hallway. They had passed a bathroom on the way over to John, and Brian and Freddie both physically dragged John over to it, just barely getting his head over the toilet before he threw up. 

Freddie rubbed John's back in soothing circular motions. John lifted his head out of the toilet to try and say something. He immediately dropped his head back down and wretched again, punctuated by a sob. 

"Freddie?" John whined. 

"I'm here. Oh, poor dear." He continued to rub John's back. 

A mysterious fourth voice piped up. "Is he all right?" 

Brian jumped. "Jesus!" He looked around and saw a set of blond curls peeking out from behind the shower curtain. "What the hell?" The curtains pulled open slightly and a gorgeous blond bloke poked his head out, keeping the rest of his body hidden. 

"He's just had a bit much to drink," Freddie replied, oblivious to Brian's distress, because why wouldn't he freak out at the sight of a random, attractive stranger hiding behind the shower curtain while the baby of the group was currently puking his guts out? 

“Why are you in the shower?” Brian asked. Blondie’s face turned red and he looked down. 

"Robert?" Yet another voice. Brian began to wonder if they were going to move the entire party in here. The second stranger with black hair appeared at the doorway. "I wasn't able to find- oh." Tall, dark and pale took in the pathetic sight before him. John threw up again while Freddie continued to stroke his back and Brian grabbed a hand towel to wring, since it would be frowned upon to start strangling people. 

"Jimmy!" The blond, Robert, called. "Were you able to find some spare trousers?" 

Jimmy threw his hands up in the air. "I've searched every bedroom I could find but Mick Jagger only has ridiculously tight jeans that can't fit anyone taller than- wait." Jimmy turned to look at Brian before positioning himself to stand next to him. He held out his hand to Brian's waist and brought it over to his own, coming a couple of inches over his own waistline. Brian narrowed his eyes. 

"It might be worth a shot," Jimmy said. 

"I am getting desperate," Robert replied. Jimmy nodded and turned to fully face Brian. 

"Do you think we can buy your pants off of you?" Jimmy asked. 

Brian's eyes widened and Freddie barked a laugh before stifling it. 

"My what?" 

"Oh, shit sorry," Jimmy quickly said. "The writer is an American. We need to buy your trousers." 

"Um, why?" Brian's eyes flitted from Jimmy to Robert hiding in the shower, already guessing what it might be. 

"I can give you all the money I have in my wallet right now," Jimmy said, already pulling it out. 

Brian rolled his eyes. "It'll take more than a few pounds to get me to walk around in my undies for the rest-" 

"Five hundred pounds." 

Brian inhaled so quickly that a bunch of spit went down his air pipe and he began to cough. Five hundred pounds?! Brian somehow almost forgot that they were at a rich people's party, not a crowded get together at Roger's place with nothing but cheap beer and pizza. But the question now: Was he willing to sell his personal dignity for five hundred pounds, which in 2018 American money is about $4824.31? 

The starving student inside of him said "Hell Yes." 

Brian suppressed the urge to cough his throat raw and struggled to get his jeans off. 

"Do you need underwear?" Freddie asked, wryly. "I'm selling mine at a discount." 

"I don't wear underwear," Robert responded. "Though it might be part of the reason I'm in this mess right now." 

Brian wanted to ask, but when a stranger offers you ridiculous amounts of money for your trousers, you don't ask questions. He finished getting them off and threw them over the shower rod for Robert to catch. 

Jimmy handed him the money as promised but couldn't help but look down. 

"Uh, seriously?" Jimmy said. He was staring at Brian’s blue rocket-ship briefs that his mum gave him for Christmas. 

Brian grabbed the money in what he hoped was an indignant manner. The fact that his eyes were watering from accidentally inhaling his saliva undercut the effect a little bit. 

Jimmy merely shrugged since he had what he needed now. The shower curtain opened, revealing Robert wearing Brian’s jeans, which hung a little baggy on him. 

“Pagey, I’d like to go now,” Robert whined. Brian turned to Freddie and mouthed ‘Pagey?’ 

Jimmy nodded. “Of course, let me just call my driver and he’ll bring the limo around.” 

The two left, leaving Brian to wonder if Jimmy Page could afford a limo yet, since The Yardbirds were fairly popular but nowhere near the sensation Led Zeppelin would become. 

“That’s a good look for you, my dear,” Freddie said. Brian resisted the urge the try and cover himself. There weren’t even any towels in the bathroom, at least not ones big enough for him to wrap around his waist. What sort of host was Mick Jagger anyway? 

John groaned and rested his head against the toilet bowl while Freddie helpfully flushed. 

“I want to go home,” Brian declared for what felt like the millionth time that night. He could hear voices outside in the hallway, passing by the bathroom door and he didn’t care if it was Mick Jagger or Pete Fucking Townshend out there. And then there was screaming. It came from downstairs and it didn’t sound like ‘Jimi Hendrix going for a fifth encore’ screaming. “This party is getting out of control.” 

“We can’t leave without Roger,” Freddie tutted. 

Brian sighed. Even after everything, Roger was still his best friend. For how miserable Brian was, he’d be a pretty shitty friend to just abandon Roger here. Besides, he had probably gotten away from Roger Daltrey by now. 

\-------------------- 

Regina drove Roger absolutely nuts. Sure, she seemed enamored with him but only asked questions about his band. He took her outside for what he hoped would be a romantic walk through the garden under the stars but- 

"So, what are you guys working on right now?" she asked brightly. "A new album? A single?" 

"Some weird bullshit Pete came up with," Roger grumbled. He was not used to this. His ego demanded that Regina be going absolutely wild for him right now, throwing her clothes off and demanding that he take her, right now. But instead she wanted to know about Pete’s weird story about a deaf, dumb, and blind kid (which he thought was really good but it was decidedly the least sexiest thing to be thinking about). 

“Oh,” she said. “Brian’s been writing some weird song about a spaceship or whatever, and I’m never sure what Freddie wants to sing about.” 

Roger took a deep breath. Nerdy and gay, he told himself. He didn’t need to let his fragile masculinity take a hit now of all times, and there was no way he was feeling threatened by Regina’s bandmates, absolutely not. 

He took her hand. 

“Listen, Regina, I-” A shrill, pubescent voice cut him off. 

“Yoo hoo! Oh, Roger!” 

Roger looked up at the sound of his name and saw some pimply, squeaky voiced kid leaning out the window and waving a bra around. What the fuck? 

But before he could do anything, Regina grabbed a flowerpot and hurled it at the window. She barely missed, with it crashing right against the windowsill and the kid disappearing back inside the house. 

Roger turned back to Regina, his mouth dropped open. 

“Well, that’s um- Wow.” He hoped his trousers were baggy enough to hide the ridiculous boner he was sporting. Wasn’t he supposed to be the one seducing her with sweet nothings? Not her arousing him with displays of violence? 

“Sorry about that,” Regina said nervously. Her voice went up a pitch, sounding more falsetto than the attractive husky voice she had. “He’s a kid I know. The bassist for my band. He’s being an ass.” 

Roger shook himself out of his stupor. “I’ll say. Did you, um, want to-?” he asked. 

“What sort of things do you do?” Regina asked quickly. Was she nervous? Roger dismissed that thought. She probably didn’t hear him through his totally manly stuttering. 

“Such as?” he asked. 

“Well you know.” Regina waved her hand around as if it would help her come up with examples. “Stuff when you’re not performing? Hobbies?” 

Roger chuckled. “We don’t really have time to pursue our own hobbies,” he said. Well, unless drugs and blowing up toilets counted, but he’s not going to mention that. 

“Oh, why’s that?” 

Roger bravely went to hold Regina’s hand, and she let him. Their fingers weaved together as Roger talked. 

“Well, we don’t really have a lot of money,” he said. “It kind of bit us in the ass becoming the band that smashes their equipment. We tried to go one show without, and the crowd nearly rioted! 

“So we have to work jobs outside of the band,” Roger continued. “Well, most of us. Two of us.” Now that Roger thought about it did John even work at that tax office anymore? 

“Wow,” Regina said in awe. “I didn’t think it would keep being tough after getting the record deals and the fans.” 

Roger sighed. Regina wasn’t just a cute bird he picked up, she also had her aspirations of stardom like he did when he was young. He wanted to say something to encourage her, since he recognized that light in her and didn’t want it to go out so quickly, but he couldn’t figure out what to say. 

His other hand reached out and brushed her cheek. Regina’s eyes drifted down for a moment. 

“Where do you work then?” she asked. 

Roger cringed. “Sheet metal. Mechanic work. Just whatever I can find right now.” Not exactly his idea of a thrilling adventure. He expected Regina to be disappointed. 

Regina tilted her head to the side. “You work on cars?” 

“Well, yeah,” Roger responded, hoping to God that her next question wasn’t going to be about whatever noise her car was making. 

“What sorts of cars?” she asked eagerly. 

Not the direction he expected this evening to go but Roger will take anything at the moment. He racked his brain for anything she might be impressed by. 

“Um, well last week we had this older man bring in his Oldsmobile.” 

Her eyes lit up. 

“An Oldsmobile? What model? What year?” 

Roger grinned. “A 442 ’65 Cutlass.” 

Her eyes widened. “Oh my God. Four hundred cubic inches, four-barrel carburetor, and dual exhausts?” 

Roger nodded. “With 345 horsepower at 4800 rpm.” 

Regina groaned, tugging slightly at the collar of her blouse. 

“And that means-” 

“0-60 mph in just 5.5 seconds.” The author didn’t bother to translate that into kilometers per second. 

Regina flushed. “Oh wow.” She shifted her legs. “Is it getting hot?” She tugged at her blouse. 

Roger leaned in close. He whispered low and husky into her ear. “I haven’t even told you about the Ferrari yet.” 

Regina gasped and turned to face him. Roger captured her mouth in a searing kiss that left them both breathless. 

When they pulled away, Roger gently wrapped his arms around her shoulders. She leaned into the embrace. 

There was nothing more romantic than this, Roger thought. He could take her to the flower beds, and they would make love beneath the stars. 

Just then an all too cheerful and irritating voice cut through their moment. “Hullo there!” 

Roger didn’t let go of Regina, but he looked over her shoulder to glare at Keith. 

Keith held up his hands in surrender. 

“I didn’t want to ruin your moment, but I thought to give you a bit of warning.” Keith looked back towards the mansion. 

“Everyone’s going to be flooding out here in a moment,” he said. “Somebody set off stink bombs or something in the main room. I don’t know who. But the upstairs is basically all full so no one has anywhere else to go.” 

Roger narrowed his eyes. “I’m sure that’s what it is,” he said sardonically. 

Keith looked down before looking up again, puppy eyes on full display. 

“I do feel really bad, Roger,” he said. “I wanted to make it up to you.” He jutted his lip out for good measure. “John and I found a room, made sure it will stay private. It’s far away from the stink bombs, so you wouldn’t have to worry about that.” 

Roger looked over at Regina again. She still looked smitten with him and Roger would be a dumbass to not jump on this opportunity. On the other hand, it was Keith. 

He stood up, walk over to Keith and seized the collar of his shirt. 

“Nothing funny in that room, you hear?” he viciously whispered into Keith’s ear. He didn’t want Regina to hear. “Anything more than a bed and it’s just not your precious drugs I’m flushing down the toilet.” 

Keith smiled. “Nothing more than a bed, mate. Well, that and condoms.” 

Roger let go of Keith, still glaring in suspicion. He turned and held out a hand to Regina. 

Regina’s eyes fluttered between the two of them. 

“Keith Moon?” she said in disbelief. “You don’t know what a big fan I am. I’m a drummer too!” 

Roger Daltrey gently grabbed her hand. “It’s time to go, my dear,” he said with a strained voice. 

Keith winked. “Upstairs. Fifth door on the left. If you go in the back way you shouldn’t smell anything.” 

Roger nodded and led Regina away. Thankfully, her starstruck awe faded once Keith was out of sight. She clung to his arm as he led her back to the mansion. True to Keith’s word, swarms of people began. rushing out of the mansion. He chanted Keith’s directions under his breath as he led her through the back door and up the stairs. 

“Um, Roger,” Regina said breathlessly as they reached the top of the stairs. “There’s something I should maybe tell you.” 

“And there’s something I should tell you,” Roger replied with a roguish grin. “When we’re alone I can tell you all about the work I did on that Ferrari.” 

Regina fell back against the wall, unable to stand by herself. She reached out to him. 

“Please, take me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, some Pete/Mick next chapter. Hopefully.


End file.
